


Priorities

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Blood and Injury, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27868101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: In Nightwalker, Watson mentioned a case that had gone wrong a couple of weeks prior. What happened?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfills Whumptober #9, 10, & 21  
> 9\. run  
> 10\. blood loss/trail of blood  
> 21\. infection

“We need to run.”

I glanced back instead of answering, checking the street behind us. The street was empty as far as I could see, what little that mattered when I could only faintly make out Holmes next to me, and I fought not to limp despite the quick pace I had set. A frown crossed his face a moment later, barely visible through the thick fog that had rolled in while we waited for our suspect. I did not need to see him to know the deductions that flit rapidly behind his gaze.

“Where are you injured?”

I shook my head. There was no reason to point it out when we had other priorities—namely, reaching safety before Jones’ gang caught us. The darkness hid the handkerchief I had tied around my right thigh, but it could not quicken my pace. We needed to be much closer to safety—or simply more desperate—for me to run. My leg was already in danger of buckling. I would not be able to run more than a minute or two before it gave out completely.

I only hoped I was not leaving a trail.

“Watson, they are getting closer.”

We would not make it to Baker Street before they caught us—not at my current pace, but it would do no good for me to run only to collapse almost immediately. If we both could not reach safety, I would rather Jones catch only me instead of us _,_ and I pulled my revolver from my pocket, cocking it.

“Go ahead.” _Leave me behind._

I barely made out his answering scowl through the darkness. I would have done the same were our positions reversed, but I stifled a sigh. He need not stay simply because I had gotten myself injured, and knowing he would not leave me would never prevent me from trying.

An idea hit me, and I put the revolver away as I turned at the next corner. Holmes caught up barely a moment later.

“Lestrade said he was working late tonight,” I answered his silent question. “Something about that kidnapping case. They will not follow us into the Yard.”

He opened his mouth to reply—probably to ask when Lestrade had mentioned such a plan—but a spasm shot down my leg on the heels of my words. I barely smothered a gasp, regretting not bringing my cane as I kept my feet only by grabbing the wall of a nearby building. The weather had been unusually mild for the last week, and I had been enjoying the lack of complaint from my old injuries. Now, however, I wished they had been bothering me—if the weather had not been so fine, I would have my cane, and I would be able to move much faster.

Holmes’ gaze flicked down, and I know he saw the way my foot twitched from the spasm. We turned another corner, the Yard now a shadow in front of us.

“Go,” I said again, my limp growing more evident despite my efforts. “It will take Lestrade a moment to get to the door.”

He glanced toward the building before looking back at me, and I dared to hope he would run ahead. I was in sight—however shadowed—and I could hear the gang on the last street. We would not have time to wait for Lestrade to answer the door.

He fell into step beside me instead, taking my arm in his. I frowned at him even as I used his support to quicken my pace.

“You should—leave me behind,” I panted, quickly beginning to breathe heavily from the pace he set. Moisture trickled down my leg.

“You should know better than to suggest that,” he said with a faint smirk, and I huffed in irritation, recognizing my own words from so many years before.

“They would not—have reached me—before you got the door open.”

He made no reply, and I focused on keeping my feet, too breathless to continue talking. My leg tried to buckle with nearly every step, and the exertion was increasing the bleeding. Hot blood trickled down my leg to soak my sock.

We reached the Yard in a few moments instead of the several minutes it would have taken, and Holmes led me to the lit window, obviously planning to forgo the door for the sake of time. A stray thought was grateful Lestrade’s office was on the ground floor, but I was more concerned with how I was going to climb through a window.

He pounded on the window with an open palm, and something inside crashed to the floor as a choice word carried through the glass. Lestrade opened the window a moment later, the scowl on his face quickly being replaced with curiosity.

“Mr. Holmes! What are you doing here?”

Holmes nudged me closer to the opening as he quickly replied, “My information was inaccurate. We would not have made it to Baker Street before Jones’ gang caught up with us, but they will not dare attack the Yard.”

Lestrade halfheartedly scowled even as he extended a hand, steadying me as I pulled myself through the window, and a wave of heat hit me as my feet touched the floor. How could Lestrade work in this?

Holmes needed no help, jumping neatly through the window to land on his feet like a cat, and the window slid shut behind him.

“Do we need to put out the light?” Lestrade asked.

Holmes shook his head, peering out the window with the drapes as cover. “They have already turned away. Though brave enough in their own territory, he would never storm the Yard, even ten against three.”

We had a few minutes before it would be safe to leave, and I tuned out their conversation, using my leg as a reason to lean against the far wall. Lestrade’s office was growing warmer by the minute, probably from the exertion and the cooler evening, and the relative chill of the wall felt wonderful against my back.

Blood continued trickling down my leg, and I leaned harder against the wall to inspect the handkerchief I had tied around my thigh. The cut was deep, and the cloth was already a deep red. I needed more bandaging—and probably stitches—but my bag was at the flat. I would have to say something, no matter how much I hated drawing attention to injuries.

“Holmes?”

“Jones was supposed to be alone,” he said, his gaze still focused out the window as he answered Lestrade’s question. He had apparently not heard me as he continued, “but he and nine others attacked an hour before he should have been in the neighborhood. We fought only long enough to escape.”

“Isn’t he the swindler?” Lestrade asked.

Holmes nodded, and I tried to prop myself against the wall, wishing the room was not so dreadfully warm. I was losing blood rapidly—too rapidly to be able to keep myself upright for much longer if I did not stem the bleeding. Lestrade would not be so deep in his thoughts as to not hear me, and I tried to get his attention.

“Lestrade, can I borrow your handkerchief?” My voice barely carried across the room, but Lestrade heard anyway, turning to look at me even as he dug the small piece of cloth out of his pocket.

“Of—Doctor!”

The muscles spasmed again, combining with the knife wound to make my leg buckle beneath me, and Lestrade lunged across the room as I slid down the wall, unable to hold myself up this time despite leaning against the corner. He did not quite manage to grab me before I hit the floor, but my position next to the wall meant I awkwardly sat more than I fell. Holmes knelt next to me a moment later, his gaze immediately riveted on the blood coming from my leg.

“You should have said something!” he snapped, applying pressure with his own handkerchief as Lestrade bolted from the room, presumably to get the medical kit the superintendent kept in his office.

“Other…priorities,” I answered around the pain of him holding pressure on the wound, deciding not to point out that I had—he just hadn’t heard me. Another painful spasm shot through my leg, and I leaned back into the corner, hiding a grimace.

He glanced away from the wound to scowl at me, then glanced at my face again. The back of his hand landed against my forehead a moment later, and I flinched, then leaned into it. His hands were remarkably cold, and the chill felt wonderful in the hot room.

He removed his hand a moment later, however, and I frowned, turning my face towards the cool wall instead as I let my eyes fall shut. Holmes knew how to treat even a deep cut such as this, and there was no need for me to stare into the light that was making my head ache.

“Stay awake, Watson.”

“I’m awake.” I hadn’t yet lost enough blood for the fatigue to hit, but the room was only growing warmer. Did Lestrade have a fire going somewhere?

* * *

“Put the fire out,” Watson added, pressing his cheek against the wall in the absence of Holmes’ hand. “It’s warm enough in here.”

Holmes swore, quickly moving the soaked handkerchiefs and Watson’s trouser leg out of the way to get a better look at the wound. Blood streamed from the cut, already beginning to puddle beneath Watson’s leg, and bright red streaks colored the pale skin.

“What is that?”

Lestrade knelt next to him, his gaze fixated on the discoloration as he opened the basic medical kit on the floor.

“Give me your flask.” Lestrade passed it over without a word, and Holmes poured the alcohol over the cut, frowning at Watson’s lack of reaction. “Jones experiments with poisons,” he finally answered shortly. “Stay awake, Watson,” he said again, watching closely for any response. Watson never moved, and the fever flush spread further across his face.

“Cold water and cloths,” he ordered, barely looking at where Lestrade still knelt next to him. “We need to bring his fever down.”

The inspector hurried off, and Holmes dug for sutures with one hand while using bandages from the medical kit to hold pressure on the wound with the other, berating himself for not realizing Watson had been truly injured. When Watson had shaken his head in response to the original question, he had assumed Watson meant it was merely his old wound, not that he thought it could wait.

Lestrade returned a moment later, and water dripped on the floor as he quickly wet a cloth and draped it over Watson’s face. Watson sighed, turning his head to lean into the cold. The movement assured Holmes that Watson was awake, though not enough to talk, and he focused his attention on threading the needle. Poison or no, they needed to stop the bleeding, and the easiest way to do that was to stitch the wound.

Lestrade draped another cloth over Watson’s neck then helped hold the cut closed so Holmes could suture it, and the minutes seemed to stretch. Holmes’ medical proficiency had increased dramatically since the first time he had sutured a wound so many years before, but what Watson could have done in only a few minutes by virtue of practice took Holmes nearly twice as long. By the time he finished, Lestrade had changed the cloths four times, and Watson’s fever had begun to respond.

He would need to clean the wound frequently to prevent infection from whatever had been on Jones’ knife, but the stitches would catch and possibly tear if they were not covered. He sent Lestrade to look for a cab as he wrapped a loose bandage around Watson’s leg.

“Watson?” he tried again when he finished. The fever had responded quickly to the cold cloths, but Watson’s eyes remained closed. “Watson, open your eyes.”

Watson’s brow furrowed, but he made no other response, and Holmes changed out the cloth on his neck before trying again.

“Watson?” He slipped his hand into the doctor’s limp one, tabbing the pulse as he did so. “Answer me, Watson.”

His friend’s fingers twitched, and he finally opened his eyes, focusing a bleary gaze on where Holmes leaned over him. Holmes smothered his relief as a scowl crossed Watson’s face.

“Quit leaning over me,” he muttered, letting his eyes close again.

Amusement and relief coursed through Holmes at the familiar remonstration, and he leaned forward again to tap Watson’s cheek, glad to see Watson swat at the irritation.

“Stay awake.”

“Tired,” was the muttered reply.

Holmes swallowed, one glance at the blood soaking Watson’s sock plenty to understand why he was so tired. Assumptions and misinformation had nearly cost him dearly this night.

“I know,” he replied, “but you need to stay awake until we get home. Lestrade’s floor cannot be that comfortable.”

Watson huffed faintly but cracked an eye open. He scowled again when he saw Holmes leaning over him but let it pass, opening his mouth instead to voice a pawky remark about being just fine where he was. Lestrade’s return cut him off.

“Come,” Holmes said, ignoring the cloths that hit the floor as he pulled Watson fully upright. Lestrade took Watson’s other side, and they helped him to his feet, staggering slightly due to the differences in height before gaining their balance. Watson tried to help, with little success, and Holmes frowned at the way Watson refused to put any weight on his bad leg. Watson’s bag was back at the flat; Holmes would check for further injury as soon as they got home.

The horse moved nervously, clip-clopping to one side as they approached the cab, and the cabbie clicked his tongue, keeping the mare calm as they helped Watson take a seat.

“Does ‘e need a ‘ospital?” the cabbie asked when Watson promptly leaned against the side of the cab, eyes closed.

Holmes shook his head. “221 Baker Street.”

The cab lurched into motion, and Holmes moved Watson to lean against him instead of the hard cab, tapping his friend’s face again.

“Stay awake, Watson.”

Watson mumbled something unintelligible, turning his head toward Holmes’ voice, and a passing streetlamp illuminated a flush returning to his cheeks. Holmes frowned and pressed his hand to Watson’s forehead, confirming what he already knew.

The fever was returning. This was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

The ride home seemed to swim hazily around me, a mixture of dreams and convoluted reality. Streetlamps intermittently pierced the fog to make my head pound, faces leered at me out of the darkness, and the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves occasionally melded with gunshots in the distance. Pain shot through my leg, beginning at the knife wound on my thigh and radiating out, and it took over my awareness. Within a few minutes, bumps became torture, and the cushioned cab seat became the hardest slab of rock, but it was only when the formerly cool evening changed to baking heat that I recognized the symptoms of infection.

Holmes said something, and I tried to rouse, both to answer his words and warn him of the infection. I remained trapped in a blurry haze, however, somewhere between waking and sleeping, and Holmes tried once more before falling silent, pressing his cold hand against my face again.

I frowned, using his hand to hold myself to awareness as I fought to open my eyes. There must have been something on Jones’ knife, for infection to set in so rapidly, and the wound needed to be cleaned. Holmes would probably have to remove the stitches he had put in earlier, opening the cut to make it easier to clean the infection, and I needed to tell him, needed to make sure he knew how to treat this without calling in another doctor.

My eyes refused to open, however, and I had even less success speaking. Even in my half-conscious state, I could tell that my attempts at words were closer to mumbles than anything intelligible, and I finally gave up, focusing on remaining aware enough to reach my bed.

The cab finally stopped, and Holmes paid the cabbie before draping my right arm over his shoulder. Mrs. Hudson hurried out a moment later, obviously watching for us, and took my other side. It was far past when we had told her to expect us, and I was grateful she had waited up. If needed, Holmes was quite able to get me upstairs on his own, just as I usually was him, but that did not mean it was easy. With how little I was able to help, Mrs. Hudson’s aid was invaluable.

My leg buckled as soon as I put weight on it, and they carried me more than helped me upstairs. I did not even have the energy to be embarrassed. My pulse throbbed in each temple, the pain radiating from my leg was only growing stronger, and the room seemed to spin around me as I found myself lying flat.

“Watson?”

The voice carried out of the fog around me, morphing into something strange, threatening. I flinched away, but a firm softness stopped my retreat. Confusion shot through me. Where was I?

A rumble started above my head, quickly developing something close to a cadence as something cold touched my face, and I flinched again, twisting away from the cold. The rumble’s tone changed, and the cold reappeared, landing firmly on my forehead and remaining there no matter what I did. Heaviness appeared on my shoulder to prevent me from twisting away again, and I eventually gave up, panting slightly.

The rumble resumed, alternating between that threatening strangeness and a soothing familiarity. I wanted to be wary, wanted to open my eyes and make sure all was right, but I was doing well even staying semi-aware. My eyes refused to open. How could I identify the danger if I could not open my eyes?

Perhaps the familiar sound could tell me. It reminded me of something…someone? Yes, the sound reminded me of someone, and I listened harder, focusing on the familiar murmur as I tried to bring a name to mind.

I could not remember of whom it reminded me, but after a moment, I decided I didn’t care. I remembered I trusted the person completely, and that was all that mattered. The threatening sound had no power when the familiar one was near. I was safe.

If I was safe, I did not need to be on my guard, and I relaxed, sinking into the firm softness still beneath me and ignoring the strange rumbling to focus on the sound that reminded me of home.

“You need to wake up, Watson.”

The voice roused me, and I frowned, not recalling falling asleep.

“Your fever broke hours ago, and you are beginning to worry me.”

Fever? Worry who? Where was I?

“Lestrade stopped by earlier to check on you. He said Jones was caught trying to steal from a shop, and they are booking him on charges of theft and aggravated assault.”

I finally recognized Holmes’ voice as well as the settee beneath me, and a memory floated to the surface: a stakeout gone wrong, with a flash of steel followed by pain.

“We need to talk about your tendency to hide injuries, old fellow. You would not have lost near as much blood if you had not let me hurry you the last hundred feet.”

He was probably right, at least about the exertion. The bleeding had increased when he helped me pick up my pace, and the exertion had likely also accelerated the infection. That explained why I felt so lethargic.

“I hope you do not make a habit of closing our cases like this, Watson. A doctor should not be so prone to injury.”

My eyes refused to open, no matter how hard I tried. His nearly rambling words all but screamed that I had been asleep far longer than he would have expected, but I could not yet tell him I was awake. Everything felt heavy, as if lifting an eyelid lifted a piano as well.

“I nearly had to call in Jackson,” he continued as a hand grabbed mine. “We know how much you would have enjoyed that.”

I attempted a scowl at the smirk I heard trying to leak into his tone. Jackson was a young upstart I had stopped allowing to treat either of us years ago, and Holmes knew full why. He would not have enjoyed having Jackson here any more that I would have.

“Your editor sent another letter,” he continued, my scowl evidently not making it to my expression. “I do not have to open it to know he is wondering when you are going to give him another case to publish. Are you ever going to tell him that not every case is fit for the public eye?”

I had, many times. He refused to listen, and I refused to make something up just to give him material. He could do that well enough on his own.

“Mrs. Hudson said a man by the name of Culbert was looking for me, hoping I would take a case related to his fish.”

I wanted to chuckle. A case centered on his fish? We had had some strange cases over the years, but I could not begin to imagine a case Holmes would take that involved _fish_.

I tried again to move, and Holmes’ next comment broke off mid-word. I hoped I had managed to move enough to show him I was awake, but his sigh a moment later said more than the ensuing words.

“You need to wake up.”

Footsteps sounded on the landing, and the door opened a moment later. Mrs. Hudson walked toward the table, likely carrying a supper tray based on the tolling bells drifting faintly through a cracked window.

A supper tray. How long had I been asleep?

“Any change?” she asked softly.

I felt his gaze on me. “No,” he finally answered, his voice subdued with worry. “He has not even twitched since the fever broke.”

She tutted. “Be patient, dearie. You don’t know what caused the infection.”

“Of course I know what caused the infection!” he nearly snapped, his grip on my hand tightening fractionally as the subdued worry came out in irritated correction. “Jones dipped his knife in one of his poisons.”

“But which one?” Silence answered her, and I could almost picture the motherly look she had directed at Holmes, diffusing his frustration as occasionally only she could. “That is all I meant. Now come get something to eat. I know it’s a bit early, but you promised him you would not skip meals again.”

He probably scowled at that, but he did replace my hand under the blankets before standing and moving toward the table. As grateful as I was that he kept the promise he had made after collapsing in the middle of a fight, I did wish he had maintained the contact for a moment longer. My finger twitched against the settee instead of his hand, and I continued fighting to open my eyes.

Holmes drifted through the dishes on the table, sampling various bits more than eating anything, and Mrs. Hudson walked to the fireplace. The heat slapped my face as she built the fire higher, and I fought the temptation to sink back to sleep. The warmth felt wonderful, but Holmes needed to know I had woken before I could sleep again.

A portion of the fire collapsed with a hiss, and I finally blinked open my eyes to see her poke the ash back into the hearth, adding more fuel as she did so. Once it was no longer in danger of collapsing out of the fireplace, she replaced the poker in its place to the side and stood, turning to glance at me.

She obviously had not expected me to stare blearily back at her, but she froze for only a moment before a large smile crossed her face. “Mr. Holmes.”

A lid fell back to its dish with a clatter, and heavy footsteps bolted across the room, skidding to a stop in front of the settee. He looked haggard, dark bags under his eyes betraying his lack of sleep, but relief flashed in his gaze as he saw I was awake.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked, pouring a glass of water. Mrs. Hudson crossed the room, beginning to put a plate of food together.

I swallowed, barely managing to nod my head. The lethargy pulled me into the cushions, coaxing me back to sleep and making it difficult to move, and I forced my eyes to stay open. I could stay awake for a few minutes.

He helped me sit up enough to drink, frowning when I nearly choked on the first sip.

“Watson?” he asked, moving the glass away. I scowled at him, and he chuckled but returned the glass, helping me sit up a bit more. I slowly drained about half of it before I tried to speak.

“How…long?” How thin my voice was!

“Nearly thirty hours,” he replied, his gaze never leaving me even as the glass clinked against the end table. “Your fever fluctuated wildly all night and most of yesterday, you have thirteen stitches, and you lost far too much blood.”

My eyes tried to drift closed, and I blinked heavily, forcing them open. A frown crossed his face, and he leaned forward, one hand reaching up to grab my wrist and gently tab my pulse.

“Just tired,” I told him, trying to ease the worry lingering in his gaze. I vaguely remembered something about the risk of infection. “The cut…got infected?” I forced out, ignoring the pause my fatigue put in the middle.

He nodded. “Jones experimented with poisons.”

“That will be…difficult…in jail.”

He stared at me for barely a moment, his hand still on my wrist, before a grin twitched his mouth.

“How long were you awake?”

I could not recall what he had said first, but I knew there was another topic—or two—that needed addressing. “You are one to talk…about hiding injuries.”

The twitched grin turned into a huff of feigned irritation as he leaned back in his chair. “I did not ignore a poisoned cut that needed thirteen stitches.”

“No,” I agreed, waiting for amusement at the easy win to light his gaze before continuing, “you claimed to be…’perfectly fine’…just before…passing out…from blood loss.” I smirked as his amusement faded, adding, “Twenty stitches.”

He scowled at my words, though he did not stop studying me.

“Doctor,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice broke into our slow bickering. “You need to eat something,” she told me when I looked up.

I eyed the plate warily, unsure if I was hungry enough to warrant eating before I slept. The last time I had tried to eat while this tired had resulted in scattering more food than I ate, but I relaxed as she set the plate on the table. Despite the scent of eggs and bacon drifting from the table, she had gathered bread, cheese, a bit of meat, and a few other things that would be easy enough to eat even lying down. The worry in Holmes’ gaze faded minutely when I reached for a piece of meat.

“’M jus’ tired, Holmes,” I said again when he continued studying me, ignoring how my words began slurring together. I had always found it difficult to speak when I was this tired, and I forced my eyes open once again. “Did they catch…th’ rest o’ the gang?”

He shook his head. “Jones and two others tried to rob a pharmacy. Lestrade responded to the scene and recognized Jones. I did not have enough proof to pin the swindling on him, but he will not be free any time soon.”

“Good.” I slowly ate another piece of meat before grabbing some bread and cheese and relaxing back into the cushions. “I hate t’ leave you to…finish th’ cases a’one,” I finally said when I finished those, unable to force my eyes open again as fatigue turned my tongue to lead, “but I don’ think…I’ll be o’ much use…for a couple o’ weeks.”

“You are going to rest and heal,” he said firmly. “I can finish the cases myself, and you do not want to risk tearing those stitches.”

I huffed a protest, but he was right. I would be in trouble if my stitches tore, especially if it happened in an altercation with a suspect. At least he only had two remaining cases. He had been running himself to exhaustion for over a month even with my help.

He might have said something more, but I was too tired to hear it, much less respond. I barely registered tugging on the blanket before I fell asleep.


End file.
